her.

"I beg you to believe, Mr. Cleggett," said Miss Pringle, averting her
face and flushing painfully, while she turned the lorgnette about and
about with embarrassed fingers, "I beg you to believe that in electing
to witness this spectacle I had no idea of its exceedingly informal
nature."

With these words she passed into the cabin, with the air of one who has
sustained a mortal insult.

"Ef you was to ask me what she's tryin' to get at," piped up Cap'n
Abernethy, "I'd say it's her belief that it ain't proper for gents to
sword each other with their shirts off. She's shocked, Miss Pringle
is."

"In great and crucial moments," said Cleggett soberly, pulling off his
shirt again and picking up a sword, "we may dispense with the minor
conventions without apology."

Loge chose a weapon with the extreme of care and particularity, trying
the hang and balance of several of them. He looked well to the weight,
bent the blade in his hands to test the spring and temper, tried the
point upon his thumb. He handled the rapier as if he had found an old
friend again after a long absence; he looked around upon his enemies
with a sort of ferocious, bantering gayety.

"And now," said Loge, "if this is to be a duel indeed, Mr. Cleggett and
I will need plenty of room, I suggest that the rest of you retire to
the bulwarks and give us the deck to ourselves."

"For my part," said Cleggett, "I order it."

"And," said Wilton Barnstable, drawing his pistol, "Mr. Black will
please note that while I am standing by the bulwarks I shall be
watching indeed. Should he make an attempt to escape from the vessel I
shall riddle him with bullets."

"Come, come," said Loge, "all this conversation is a waste of time!"

"That is my opinion also," said Cleggett.

They saluted formally, and engaged their blades.

With Cleggett, swordsmanship was both a science and an art. And
something more. It was also a passion. A good swordsman can be made;
a superior swordsman may be born; the real masters are both born and
made. It was so with Cleggett. His interest in fencing had been keen
from his early boyhood. In his teens he had acquired unusual practical
skill without great theoretical knowledge. Then he had recognized the
art for what it is, the most beautiful game on earth, and had made a
profound and thorough study of it; it appealed to his imagination.

He became, in a way, the poet of the foil.

Cleggett seldom fenced publicly, and